Send Me the Moon
by Lily Winterwood
Summary: Vulcan is sixteen light years from Earth. When James T Kirk is twenty-two, the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence Institute receives a transmission from a six-year-old Vulcan child named Spock. 21st Century AU.


**Title:** Send Me the Moon  
**Author:** Lily Winterwood and IntelligentAirhead  
**Characters/Pairings:** James Kirk/Spock, mentions of Sarek, Carol Marcus, David Kirk, Nyota Uhura, Hikaru Sulu, Montgomery Scott, Pavel Chekov, and Leonard McCoy  
**Genre:** Epistolary, Drama, Friendship (mild romance), Alternate Universe (21st Century)  
**Ratings/Warnings:** PG-13 for character death  
**Summary:** Vulcan is sixteen light years from Earth. When James T Kirk is twenty-two, the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence Institute receives a transmission from a six-year-old Vulcan child named Spock.  
**Disclaimer:** Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry, and the lyrics of "Send Me the Moon" belongs to Sara Bareilles.  
**Notes:** Spock is full Vulcan in this fic. The timeline of events in canon has been altered significantly due to the discrepancy of science's current standings in regards to space travel and Gene Roddenberry's idyllic timeline, as well as the human tendency to innovate mostly when there is sufficient economic and cultural incentive. Other inspirations for this fic are drawn from stirringwind tumblr's touching K/S fanart "Star Crossed" and Lily's Astrobiology classes.

**Send Me the Moon**

_Sweet sun_  
_Send me the moon_  
_Empty the skies out_  
_Bringing me one step closer to you_

* * *

A Letter to Humans:

My name is S'chn T'gai Spock. I am six years old. As a part of an outreach programme called Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations at my place of learning we have been taught how to send messages in binary to you. This is because the messages we have received from you have been in such a language, and you cannot read the language of my people. Therefore, communicating with you in such a manner is the logical option.

I am from a planet that is sixteen years as the light travels from your homeworld. This planet of mine is called Vulcan, and it is a big red desert. My father serves on the Vulcan High Council. He and I and everyone else look like you except your eyebrows are flat and your ears are round. We have lots of other living creatures on Vulcan. It would be logical for some of you to come and visit, but I know that Humans cannot travel as fast as light just yet, and even then it would take years for you to come here.

I believe this is a logical length for a letter. May you Humans live long and prosper.

S'chn T'gai Spock

* * *

Dear Spock,

We got your letter. You write really well for a six year old, and in our language too! You must be really smart. Admittedly, by the time you get this you won't be six anymore, and heck, it might even seem like an embarrassing first-grade pen pal project. I had to do one of those too, don't worry.

I'm James Tiberius Kirk. I'm a twenty-two-year-old intern at the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence Institute, and you're like a huge deal to us right now. In 2030, when I was 13, we had actually scanned your star, 40 Eridani A - wait, shit, you know what your own star is called. Well, then again, that's our name for your star, so you don't know it. I suppose you could have intercepted a message about it and figured out what we were talking about. Feel free to share the information of what you call your star with us. Knowing the bureaucratic shit that goes down, we'd get a couple of people whining about standardising the name, but I've always felt that we should call things what the natives call them anyway. Anyway, what I was trying to say was that we scanned your star with an extrasolar planet-hunting space telescope (isn't that cool? Originally it was supposed to launch before I was born, but it got cancelled. Some guy named Christopher Pike kickstarted a fund to revitalize it in 2013 - obviously this is because he was awesome enough to see space and recognize its own awe factor - so they finally launched it in 2025. It kind of figures that it took as long as a decade past the original launch date to get going) and found your planet, but until now we have never received a response to all the messages we sent there. You have no clue how much your letter meant to us. "A Letter from a Vulcan Child" - that's what we're calling your piece - has been trending for weeks on Twitter. I suppose I should also provide an explanation for that, but I guess if you guys are teaching kids how to send binary messages then social networking sites won't need that much of an explanation anyway.

Did you guys happen to get the second Cosmic Call or the genetic code for RuBisCo from the early part of this century? I grew up reading about those. My father worked at the National Aeronautics and Space Administration during the period when we were trying to send people to the Moon, and now I get to send out messages of my own. Well, not really - I kinda hijacked the radio thing to send this to you. Don't tell anyone.

Hope to find you well and kicking,

James T Kirk

* * *

Dear James T Kirk,

I would assume that your usage of the collective "we" would suggest that you were referring to your organisation. However, based upon your further statements that imply a wider audience, I have come to the conclusion that you were speaking of a far wider audience than those with which I had first intended to communicate. Upon recollection, I infer that I did not fully expect to establish contact with any inhabitant of your planet, although my original letter was addressed to humans. I had no expectations regarding a response at the time that your correspondence was intercepted, yet I find that I should have kept such a hypothesis in mind. The reiterations of documents, songs, and other such information that has been intermittently delivered to our planet's data banks would serve as a solid enough basis for such a theory to prove true.

Now that you have brought this fascinating development to my attention, a great many of the messages that we have received from Earth have begun to follow a more cohesive line of thought upon reexamination. I find that my scientific curiosity will not be sated until I ask why certain messages show a degeneration in syntax and vocabulary. Many have dropped alphabetic representations to the point of using numerals in their place. It is a fascinating phenomenon, if disconcerting in its implications. Your clarification on the matter of "Twitter" has done much to improve the general understanding of the source of these responses as a whole, yet it does not ease the process of understanding why these particular messages degenerate in lucidity. A message we received several years ago consisted of many such messages as those that originated on this "Twitter".

I am unsure of the repercussions of your unauthorised use of such vital materials as a broadcasting station, and I find that this exercises a marked effect over your likelihood of receiving this missive. As I compose this transmission, I am forty-one years old. Logically, you will have aged as well. If you do receive this communication, it will draw your comparison to a communications project closer than it had been previously. Though I accept your praise of my abilities regarding your language in my childhood as a cultural necessity, I protest that I in no way expressed the mastery that would warrant such gratification. I would appreciate any further information you are able to supply regarding the variety of languages and alphabets that your planet utilises. Our lack of data regarding Human linguistics hinders our ability to comprehend your more complex - or simpler, in some cases - dispatches. If it shall aid your own understanding of Vulcan in any way, I can foresee no difficulty in divulging our name for our star. We refer to it as Nevasa.

Based on the information I have now gathered, I conclude that this is a more logical length for such a letter. If it is to travel for the same duration of time as our previous correspondences, it is fitting that it should contain a worthwhile amount of inquiries and information. Therefore, I shall close it as it is.

In the case that you are alive and able-bodied, I shall end this missive with the traditional parting phrase of my people, as I had many years before.

Live long and prosper, James T Kirk.

S'chn T'gai Spock

* * *

Dear Mr Spock,

Since you wrote me a long letter, I find it only fitting that I should respond in kind.

Twitter has now been rendered obsolete by the rapid pace of technological development here on Earth, which is fairly exciting. Our space program has been revitalized by this new contact with your planet Vulcan, and I don't doubt that within a couple decades or so, we'll find you. In between these transmissions I have also sent you more music from Earth; now we have developed our broadcasting capabilities for the general public. I suppose you Vulcans have been busy receiving messages in all sorts of Earth languages from sixteen years ago. We're working on that speed thing, honestly. How do you do it?

Right now, I am fifty-four years old and the father of a son following my footsteps into astronomy. I'm beyond the years of exploration in space myself - I did participate in one of the manned missions to Mars while I waited for your response - but I continue to help out with the aerospace organizations that are developing our technology for light speed and faster-than-light travel. The organization that I originally contacted you with still exists, of course, but once again it is a subset of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, which is one of many aerospace organisations here on Earth and the one my father worked for in the twentieth century. Like with the International Space Station that we built back then, we are planning to compile our research and technological efforts into one space exploration program called Starfleet. It is a shame that I will not be able to boldly go with the first recruits of the new Starfleet program, but my son will. Perhaps he will meet you someday and tell you I said hi.

I have been talking to you for so long, yet I am unable to come and meet you in person, and somehow I doubt such a first contact will happen in my lifetime. Perhaps it will in David's. I have attached a picture of my family; perhaps you can share yours with me, if you're so inclined.

As for languages and language deterioration, I can't help you there. A good friend and colleague of mine, Nyota Uhura, majored in linguistics when she was in college. She says the changing of the English language - the supposed deterioration - is merely another step in the evolution of said language. After all, if you've ever seen Old English (which you probably haven't), it's significantly different than the English we're using.

Speaking of which, what does your language look like? You mentioned in your first letter that we Humans can't read your language. A lot of people, myself included, are curious as to what the Vulcan language looks and sounds like. All the transmissions we have received from you are in our languages. You Vulcans are so clever and logical - logic is a huge thing over there, right?

Anyway, attached is a picture of me, my wife Carol, my son David, and our dog Bones. He's named after a family friend. Said friend wasn't very pleased about it.

Love,

James Kirk

[Attached File: Family Picture]

* * *

Dear James Kirk,

I find it intriguing that as you have aged you have dropped a letter from your title. If this is a demonstration on the evolution of your language it is an effective, although subtle one. The increased iterations of endearments appear to be unique to either your personal culture or your own philosophy. Whatever the answer may be, it is likely I will not be informed of it until long after this transmission has been sent. An unfortunate side effect to your limited technology is the inherent incompatibility with Vulcan's advanced communication system. From what you have stated, it appears that Human technology is progressing at a steady rate, but has thus far failed in its efforts to produce a viable subspace transmitter. Such difficulties render most contact efforts inefficient. By my calculations, the amount of time spent waiting for a reply to each of our transmissions nearly qualifies for a Human descriptor I have noted appears in several of your music pieces. However, it is not wasted, as it were, for your letters bring new understanding and allow for a deeper exchange of information than what a limited view of the situation would permit. If the circumstances had changed, it would be preferable to keep a steady correspondence with each other that had the added advantage of being quick enough to allow us more inclusive and detailed understanding.

As things stand now, there is a strong possibility that you shall not receive this letter, or that your next response shall mark the end of our exchanges. Though my decision could be considered illogical, I shall write as if I am certain this missive will find you well. The music you have sent has been fascinating as a whole, for lack of a more apt descriptor. Each of your files has followed a different paradigm of chords, harmonics, and evolution in terms of development. Did you choose such a variety to demonstrate that diversity is found in more than your languages alone?

Although your languages have fewer visible connections with each other, Vulcan does have differing dialects. It is an elegant and efficient language, exact in execution and technical formation. Its pronunciations would be difficult to emulate among humans. Its flow and accent requirements are too strenuous to duplicate for those without the capability to form the essential sounds. It has evolved in its own way as well. Your colleague is indubitably well-versed in such evolutions, and so I shall concede to her expertise concerning your own language.

As for your occupation, I find that your tendency to explore is unsurprising, and the fact that you have passed this trait onto your son marks it as a possibly genetic phenomenon. Your mentions of your father only solidifies that theory further; however, it could also be a behavioural trait passed on through observation and emulation. Nevertheless, your accomplishments in your chosen field are impressive. I look forward to any circumstance in which I am able to make contact with a Human in a capacity that does not require a time lapse between responses that exceeds two decades. That is not to say that I do not derive satisfaction from our interactions thus far, James Kirk. It is simply a matter of feeling - again for a lack of a better term - thwarted in the pursuit of further conversation.

My own pursuits lie in scientific discovery, and more recently, diplomatic affairs. I have long held an interest in the more opaque matters of what had been previously thought to be fully examined, resolved, and categorised issues. It was logical to pursue a path I held an aptitude for as well as enjoyed. As for your inquiry regarding whether logic is of any large importance in our culture, I shall respond with an affirmative. Logic is the maxim upon which we have based our belief system, educational standards, social interaction, and most other facets of life; it is our most basic principle.

From what I have inferred from the transmissions received over time, Humans appear to stake value in emotions, interpersonal relationships, and the pursuit of a balance of both. I have deduced from your picture that you must be near such a thing to appear so satisfied. Your family seems to be content. However, if the family friend of which you speak shares any of the same traits as the animal you call a dog, I would suggest emotional or mental healing. He seems far too eager to tear apart the object in his grasp. The most fascinating facet of the attachment, however, was the satellite in the background. Vulcan lacks moons, so such a sight is not familiar to me. I thank you for sharing this image with me. I have attached an image of my own family below. My bondmate T'Pring, my mother, father, and I are included within it.

Live long and prosper, James Kirk.

S'chn T'gai Spock

[Attached File: MaatSchnTgai]

* * *

Dear Mr Spock,

At eighty-six, I find it astounding that I can even read these newfangled screens anymore. But I managed to read your transmission in its entirety because it has taken so long to reach me. To know that your letters travel at the speed of light to reach me makes me happy somehow, even though speed of light is far too slow even for me. During that time, my son has married and had children, and my granddaughter is working on developing the very device that you discuss in your letter, the subspace transmitter. I bet by the time you receive this transmission, I will be quickly following it up with a subspace call. Our first subspace call. Isn't that exciting?

I do not know if I have the strength enough to write a letter as long as your last one was, and for this I apologize. They have worked medical miracles for us old farts of the 21st Century, so I don't think I'm going to be going anywhere just yet - and even if I didn't have machines helping me stay alive sometimes, I wouldn't give up the fight just yet. I need to hear your voice, Spock. I keep on imagining a voice in my mind, cool and logical, reading these transmissions as you - but it's not as good as the real deal. Just your voice, Spock, I just want to hear your voice for the very first time.

It was weird for me to see that your family doesn't smile for the camera, but based off your letter I presume that amongst Vulcans it is not necessary to show contentment to be content. You are everything you said you were in your very first letter to us as a kid - your ears and eyebrows really are different. I find that, to borrow your phrase, fascinating.

I can tell I'm old, and I know it'd be (to borrow another of your phrases) illogical to think I would live to see another transmission from you. But in the meantime, it was good to know that I had a hand in discovering that not only was there someone intelligent out there, but also that that someone was kind, in their own logical way. I communicated with someone who reached out a hand due to a project on welcoming diversity. I am glad I was able to make a friend and see that curiosity and kindness could stretch over light years and into different solar systems. I am glad to have been one of the first to know that we are not truly alone in this vast universe. With you by my side in spirit, I boldly went to the stars. I only wish that you could have actually been there with me.

I remain, forevermore, your loving friend,

James Kirk

* * *

_Send it soon_  
_And I will breathe in, breathe out_  
_Until you come in and out_  
_Of view_

* * *

When S'chn T'gai Spock receives that transmission, he is one hundred and five years old. Based on his calculations, James Tiberius Kirk is one hundred and two, and the humans have, true to James's predictions, developed subspace communication.

James's voice is like faded velvet against the mild static of the subspace communicator. "Hello?" he calls down the line, and Spock realises for one heart-stopping moment that the only clues he has to what English truly sounds like are through the songs James sent him.

"Heh-low," he replies slowly, painstakingly, rolling the foreign word across his tongue for the first time.

"Spock, is that you?" James's voice is hopeful, and Spock doesn't blame him. Human subspace communications have enabled him to receive the other's contact details instantaneously, but James is too unused to the technology to be able to do much outside answering calls.

"It is me," agrees Spock, and for a moment all he hears is static as James exhales in relief. "James Kirk, it is an honour to meet you at last."

"Call me Jim," suggests James. "All of my friends do that."

"You consider me a friend," repeats Spock. It is different, hearing the words from James's mouth instead of reading them from a transmission.

"I think I mentioned that in my last letter," James points out, and Spock hears a little wheeze of static that alarms him.

"Are you physically capable of maintaining this call, James - Jim?" he queries.

"Of course I am. Couldn't go until I heard your voice, after all," the old man says on the other end of the line. "That was supposed to be laughter. You do have that on Vulcan, right?"

Spock huffs a little in amusement. James's chuckling wheeze echoes across the subspace channel.

"Thought so," says the Human, and the Vulcan feels a little stab in his side, because James's voice projects the illusion that he is close, yet in actuality he is so very far away.

For a while, they simply sit there, neither one saying a word as they listen to the other's breathing across the subspace channel, a strange and new feeling for both of them. To finally hear the voice of the person they have been writing to all this time ironically leaves them lost for words.

"I feel a bit like a kid again," James says after a moment.

"How so?" asks Spock, arching an eyebrow before remembering that James still cannot see him. Human subspace transmissions still have not achieved visual contact, though at their current rate of progress Spock is certain that it will arrive in a year or two.

A year or two too late, perhaps, because James's breathing is laboured on the other end and slightly mechanical, as if there is a machine helping him respirate, letting him borrow some more time for this first and last call across the universe.

"I don't know what to say," James replies. "There's so many things I want to tell you, but I don't know if I can get them all out - or if I should get them all out, at that."

"It would be logical to speak your mind," says Spock.

James laughs again, or at least makes that strange chuckling wheeze noise again. Spock's heart skips a beat, and he clutches the transmitter a little tighter.

"Well then," James says after a moment. "I wish we could have been born a couple years later. Maybe even a couple decades. Centuries. I don't know."

"It is not logical to wish for things that cannot be done," Spock points out, but there is a part of him - despite the futility of such activities - that wishes for that same outcome. Within the interlude between his and James's last correspondence, his father died of Bendii Syndrome. His mother quickly followed; the emotional burden of their severed bond had been too much for her.

He does not wish for James to leave as they had. For a man who has drifted only on the periphery of Spock's life, he has ensnared Spock's affection with only a couple transmissions and one subspace call.

"But could you imagine it, Spock?" asks James, each word another blow to Spock's emotional barriers. "If we made this call when we were younger, if we didn't have to wait thirty-two years in between transmissions. Can you imagine all that we could've learnt about each other? All that we could have done together?"

"You hypothesise that if we had been born into this era instead of the former one, we would have been closer confidants than we are even now."

"Yeah, and it wouldn't have been so surprising for me to realise that I love you."

And then the wall is torn down, and Spock can feel the sensation of tears rolling down his cheeks as he listens to James's laboured breathing on the other end. He is not the only one who spends thirty-two years waiting on a reply, checking his inboxes every day in the wild hope that perhaps at least one message would defy all laws that should act on it, much like their relationship had, and arrive little bit faster than light. He is not the only one whose day is made that much better with the receipt of another transmission from Earth. Jim has sent him so much of Human culture, but he has never reciprocated as he should have. He has hoarded each extra transmission, treasured each song and each new factoid about humanity. He, too, in his own scientific way, has fallen in love with James T Kirk without even knowing what the Human looks like.

"You have used that endearment before," the Vulcan points out feebly. "It is not that great of a surprise to me."

"Oh, that? Humans like ending letters with 'love'," says James, confirming Spock's hypotheses. "But I really mean it, Spock. I love you. I know it's not logical, but -"

Spock cuts him off. "The sentiments are reciprocated," he says, and he can hear a slightly hysterical wheeze on the other end as James exhales in laughter.

"Oh, good. Now I really don't know what to say." James laughs again. "I mean, it's not every day that someone gets a love letter from an alien."

"This is hardly a letter," Spock points out.

"Same difference."

"I have written you several letters," adds Spock, "but I doubt even you can misinterpret them as romantic in nature. Vulcans do not express such emotions."

"Which makes your previous admission mean that much more to me," replies James. "Thank you."

Spock swallows thickly and wonders why it is so hard to breathe. The atmosphere had not changed in composition, of that he is certain. Therefore, it is only logical that he concede his difficulty in taking in enough oxygen lies in his own physiology.

There is another lull in the conversation, one in which Spock can clearly hear James's laboured, semi-mechanical breathing. The Human's time is almost up, and the illogical want for Jim to stay coils so tightly in Spock's gut until it is all he can think about.

"Do not leave me," he says.

"I'm sorry," James replies, and a new sound fills the channel. Spock wonders if that is the noise Humans make when they cry. "I'm so sorry, Spock. It's been fantastic - fascinating, to use your favourite adjective - but I think this might be goodbye."

"I understand." That is a lie. The mortality of James Kirk, his friend from across the stars, is a concept he cannot comprehend. To know that there will be no more letters from Earth transmitted by him is not knowledge he wishes to possess.

"I love you," James repeats, as if sufficient repetition of those words will perform some sort of miracle for him - keep him alive, bring Spock to him, anything - "I love you, Spock, I love you."

"And I," agrees Spock, "have been and always shall be yours."

When the line goes dead, it is a hollow indicator of what is to come. Spock lowers the transmitter with shaking hands. His bondmate T'Pring does not question why there are tears in his eyes.

Not even meditation can soothe the gaping maw inside him that has previously been filled with the distant presence of James T Kirk.

* * *

_Holding my breath_  
_Last one I've got left_  
_'til I see you_

* * *

The year after, subspace video transmissions are developed on Earth. The year after that, the aeronautics engineers of the Starfleet Aerospace Organisation, led by a man named Zephram Cochrane, finally develop warp drive.

James T Kirk is too late to see these developments. He does not live to see the first physical contact between the Vulcans and the Humans. He does not live to see Ambassador Spock step off his shuttlecraft and head to Starfleet Headquarters to consult their databases.

The quiet hum of a hovercraft stops at the side of an old Iowan farmhouse. A woman with blonde hair and blue eyes greets the aging Vulcan in his austere black robes. He raises his hand, fingers parted between the third and fourth fingers, and bids her live long and prosper. She, who has reached for his hand to shake, nods numbly and leads him through the house to the back.

Beneath the shade of an apple tree there sits a stone, a sombre monolith engraved with only a couple words:

_In memory of_  
_James Tiberius Kirk_  
_March 22, 2017 - January 17, 2120_  
_Beloved father, grandfather, and interplanetary explorer_

Spock stops in front of this stone, eyes downcast. From the folds of his robes he retrieves a PADD, pulling up a couple files on it.

"You sent me more transmissions," he says to the stone, even though he knows it is illogical to do so; James cannot hear him. "Unfortunately, I received them too late."

"I often pondered sending more than one dispatch at a time myself, but I had looked upon it as an illogical imposition. I can infer you thought this as well." In an uncharacteristic display of fatigue, Spock's hand dragged across the PADD, lingering over drafts saved from thirty, fifty, seventy years ago. They had only started trickling in a month after Jim drew his last breath. His sense of dramatic timing never faltered, it seemed, even in death.

The sigh of the wind through the apple tree is all he receives as a reply now. Spock looks around. Earth is so green and blue, a bold contrast to the reds and oranges of Vulcan. He had been doubtful of the reports that Earth's surface composition was indeed seventy-one point eleven percent water, but not anymore. Earth teems with life, even in this particular section of it seems to consist primarily of farms and fields as far as the eye can see.

"I found myself enjoying them, even if they are now from a dead man," continues Spock, fingers reaching out for the gravestone as if wishing to touch it, yet unsure if he should. "I now only hope your katra has found peace in its release." The unspoken words regarding Spock's own state of being - how he has flagged for so long and caught alight when every delivery is made - remain in his own mind. They are filed alongside every reply he has composed but cannot send.

_Dear Spock_, one of James's unsent letters reads, _David went on his first (legal) drive today. I don't know why, but all I could think at the time was, "oh, shit, he's going to hotwire the car." He has keys to his own vehicle now, so I don't see why I wouldn't have had this thought sometime sooner. I suppose my family has always thought that it takes self control not to jump into something too quickly. As soon as Sam could read, Mom locked the quantum physics up in a cabinet. She had learned from her early experiences with pyromania. Trust me when I say we have some crazy stories that usually start with "this one time". But then again, it's hardly ever just one time. You're probably rolling your eyes right now- or whatever the Vulcan version of that is- but I can't believe you've never done something similar._

_Besides, I have good reason to be wary of raising kids. The last time I was in charge of a teenager, he started attempting to convince me that everything I had ever come into contact with originated in Russia. He then proceeded to hack the radio transmitter on our spaceship to wish a botanist friend of ours a happy birthday. Problem is, he did it twenty minutes too late, since Mars was at its farthest distance from Earth on that particular day._

_I've been scared for a while that somehow I'll mess up my own kid, but Bones - the human, not my pet dog - has assured me that everyone screws up their kid, so it's mostly damage control. He has a pisspoor bedside manner for a doctor, if you ask me. But then again, he doesn't usually ask, and even though I tell him, he doesn't care. Besides, once you've been on the wrong side of his vaccinations enough times, you learn to keep your mouth shut._

_Despite the fact that you've never mentioned having kids of your own, I wish I could ask for your advice, or at least some kind of opinion. Hell, I wouldn't mind so much even if it were something like, "Jim, the way you are raising your son is clearly some obscure breach of conduct and is so illogical that I must shake my head in shame." Do Vulcans even shake their heads to signal disapproval? Or do you guys just do some disappointed eyebrow dance? You did mention in your first letter that our eyebrows are flat compared to yours. It would be kind of pointless though, considering that David would almost be as old as me right now by the time we get your response. Might be good for him, if he decides to have kids._

_Sorry I'm lumping so much personal stuff into this letter, and not enough science-y, space-y things. I just thought that since I consider you a friend, I could tell you these things. I mean, I can't really keep you up to date, because that'd take too long. I've got a colleague, Montgomery Scott - David calls him Uncle Scotty - who's working on that speed thing, though. Maybe by the time we're old and wrinkled we'll actually be able to hold more of a instant messaging sort of conversation. How did we Humans even cope before the advent of email, anyway?_

_Anyway, I'll be eagerly awaiting your reply, as usual. I wish you could send me some songs from Vulcan; I bet they sound great._

_Love,_

_James Kirk_

Spock looks up from the PADD to realise that there are tears streaming down his cheeks once more. Stepping forward again, he places one hand on the gravestone as if to steady himself.

"I have attempted to write responses to your unsent messages," he says. "It is obviously a fruitless enterprise, but it would be remiss of me to leave our correspondences unanswered. You had, after all, stated on many occasions that you were looking forward to my responses." He pauses. "And I do derive a sense of satisfaction from writing these replies. In a way, I have grown used to writing to my…" he trails off for a moment, searching for the word, for one of three English meanings that make up the Vulcan word t'hy'la. "Friend."

It feels inadequate somehow.

Auditory hallucinations are not logical, but they are a comfort. At times he can believe that he hears the soft sigh of his old friend, though he spoke with him but once. He listens for such things occasionally, but they arrive on their own accord, and never when it should be convenient according to social standards.

So it is with little surprise that he hears the sound of footfalls over grass from somewhere behind him. However, it takes a moment for him to parse that they are not originating within his own mind. He turns, straightening as the steps increase in proximity. In a gesture entirely too human for one who has only recently come into physical contact with them, Spock fumbles in returning his PADD to storage. Perhaps that is why he can almost hear an amused huff nearby. Moments later, a middle-aged man with blond hair going grey and thick glasses perched on his nose approaches him, hands shoved in his pockets as he shuffles towards the Vulcan.

"Hello," he says, waving. Spock raises the Vulcan salute in acknowledgement.

"Hello," he agrees, folding his hands behind his back. "May I be of assistance?"

The man laughs, blue eyes crinkling. The familiar sound makes Spock's heart beat a little faster.

"No," the man says, "I'm just saying hi for an old friend."

* * *

**Notes: **Vulcan, according to Gene Roddenberry, was said to orbit the star 40 Eridani A, the primary star of the 40 Eridani System. All three stars in that system are part of the Eridanus constellation.

The extrasolar planet-hunting telescope is better known as SIM Lite, which had been part of NASA's search for habitable extrasolar planets before it was scrapped in 2010. Using interferometry, it would be able to search for a planet within the habitable zone of 40 Eridani A.

The Cosmic Call 2 and the RuBisCo Stars messages were sent out by SETI to the Orion and Cetus constellations (which neighbour Eridanus) respectively. Cosmic Call 2 was an interstellar radio message, while the RuBisCo Stars message sent out the genetic code for Rubisco, a protein that plants on Earth use for photosynthesis.

SETI has sent out Russian music (the Teen Age Message), Beatles songs (Across the Universe), personal messages (Lone Signal), and Tweets (Wow! Reply). They were not directed towards the Vulcans, but it is entirely plausible that Vulcans could have picked them up. Also, provided that we discover a habitable planet orbiting 40 Eridani A, it is also possible that we would want to spam messages in their direction anyway.

Acknowledgements to Professor Wes Watters at Wellesley College for providing inspiration, and Wikipedia for providing information.


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